


April 1963

by wreathed



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Control, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, New Orleans, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Post Beach Divorce, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:49:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1445719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/pseuds/wreathed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>April 1963. Six months after the Cuban missile crisis and six months before the Kennedy assassination. Charles has tracked Erik down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	April 1963

**Author's Note:**

> Written before the release of _X-Men: Days of Future Past_.

April 1963. Six months after the Cuban missile crisis and six months before the Kennedy assassination.

April 1963. Charles has tracked Erik down to a crowded, sweaty bar in New Orleans. And Erik is alone. 

Charles’s students would have been overjoyed to learn that he has located their nemesis in such a vulnerable position, but he has not deigned to tell them about this particular mission. Charles is alone too.

There is a narrow, faded hotel across the street from the bar. He asks the proprietor for accommodation on the ground floor.

*

Once Charles has closed the door to his room for the night – a hot, humid box with a single bulb, a single window and a single bed – he pushes himself up to lie down on the mattress, puts his hand to his temple and closes his eyes.

Fear in his throat, he reaches out to other people’s minds so that he can see what they see. Dancing, a crush of bodies, someone applying lipstick in the ladies’ restroom, the bottom of a highball; all seen through the eyes of one person after another until, _yes_ , at last he spots Erik, at the bar and bent towards someone he can’t quite see.

He is not wearing his helmet – of course he’s not, he’d stick out a mile if he was – but it is too much of a risk to read Erik’s mind directly; Charles is sure that Erik would sense his presence. Divested of costume, Erik looks just about the same as Charles remembers him – jaw tight and sharp, dark turtleneck and close-fitting trousers, elegant fingers wrapped around a full glass of beer. Magneto seems like nothing more than a bad dream.

It makes Charles _long_ for him.

The man he’s gazing at Erik through finishes his drink and moves towards the dance floor, so Charles desperately flits between other warm bodies, trying to get a better angle. He is about to settle on a giggling woman huddled in a group of friends, hoping she will at some point turn and pause to admire Erik properly (narrow hips, well-muscled thighs atop the bar stool) until he spots with fresh astonishment that Erik is _talking to a woman sitting next to him at the bar_.

And she is touching him on the shoulder, laughing. (Erik can be very charming when there’s something he wants.)

She could be working for the other side, is Charles’s first thought. Best be careful.

Gently, he reads her mind. Twenty-four years old, a secretary for U.S. Mail. She is attracted to Erik, imagines his strong arms around her and his voice murmuring close in her ear, but she’s never slept with a man on their first meeting and she’s not about to start now. Charles doesn’t want to know her name, so he doesn’t look. Not an ally of Erik’s, doesn’t even recognise him looking as he does and being where he is. No evidence of mutant powers whatsoever. Completely normal. Safe.

“You are beautiful,” Erik tells her, looking straight into her eyes. “You must know that,” and Charles’s heart beats, beats, beats.

Already it is not enough. He does not want to have travelled a thousand miles and forsaken several worthy leads to simply observe, Erik same as he ever was. He needs _more_.

Charles is good. Sometimes Charles wipes people’s minds when he needs to. Sometimes it is an act of kindness.

He thinks of Moira, sunlight through trees, then nothing at all.

Charles finds a comfort that disturbs him in reaching out to the twenty-four year old secretary Erik thinks is beautiful, pulling himself in deeper, sensing the edges of her body and the hum of her soul.

“Come here often?” Charles makes her say.

Total control, like a marionette on strings. Sweat pricks at the back of Charles’s pale neck in the room across the street from the bar.

Erik actually laughs, a deep, full-bodied sound that makes heat pool at the base of Charles’s spine and pulse outwards. “No, sweetheart. I don’t live around here. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“In that case,” she says, playing with her hair in a way Charles used to see girls do in Oxford pubs. “Do you need a place to stay?”

Erik leans further towards her and lowers his voice, just as she had wanted it. “Ten minutes ago, you told me you weren’t that sort of girl.”

“Let’s say you’ve persuaded me.”

“You haven’t even asked me my name.” He is frowning slightly, as if he doesn’t trust her. (Charles aches to read Erik’s mind once more, to see the whole of him.)

“I don’t necessarily want to know,” she says, Charles knowing Erik will hardly give his real identity. “Are you looking for excuses? Do you not want me?” she asks quietly. (Charles wants to drop the act. He wants to say _are you sorry_ and _is Raven alright_ and _Erik it’s me, I want you_.)

Concentrating, Charles makes her rake her gaze over the pulse point of Erik’s neck, then down his chest to between his legs – to show Charles the sight of it, and to make her look as lustful as Charles feels, cock beginning to harden in his trousers.

Erik grins widely; a flash teeth. “You’re exactly the sort of person I came looking for this evening. I just thought you would be more of a challenge.”

Then she stands up, tottering in her high heeled shoes under Charles’s inexperienced instruction, and Erik follows her out the door.

Taking her by the wrist, Erik pulls her around to the back of the bar building, deserted. (It feels almost as if Erik is touching Charles. Charles concentrated on staying in control of the woman and breathing in, out, in, out.)

“We’re not going to yours,” Erik says, insistent as some of the perpetual tension he carries begins to uncoil. “This is going to be quick.”

“I can’t let a stranger into my house anyway,” she sweetly whispers. “And I don’t want to wait.”

Erik shoves her against the wall, tugs up the waistband of her tight pencil skirt, unclips her suspender belt, all with cold, rough hands. He pulls down her underwear as he kisses her long and hard, once.

“Talk to me,” Charles makes her say without planning to make her say it. (On the hotel bed across the street, Charles fights to leave alone the heavy erection tenting his trousers. He wants that roughness, Erik’s fire. Any tenderness now might not be real, anyway.)

“God, you’re wet,” Erik says, two of his large fingers sliding in easily. “Such a slut, all ready for me.”

(That’s Charles’s doing, making her body as wet as that so quickly, because he wants Erik to be able to enjoy a good, hard fuck.)

(The sound of Erik’s trouser zip as he undoes it, Erik’s heavy breathing, is turning on Charles something obscene.)

Her feet slide out of her shoes as Erik holds her up against the wall. He’s still entirely clothed, but Charles still get to see Erik as he’s previously only imagined him: flushed, hard, demanding.

He grunts as he enters her. “So wet,” he says again, breathing hard. “So tight around me.”

He rocks in and out of her smoothly, a few strands of hair falling in front of his eyes, teeth clenched together.

“Open your blouse,” Erik manages, and Charles makes her undo the buttons. Erik buries his head in her cleavage, bites gently at her neck, breathes harder as he speeds up, still holding her up against the wall.

He comes suddenly, spilling inside her, looking momentarily lost.

(It is after that moment that Charles shoves down his trousers and wanks himself for the few strokes needed to make his back arch, coming hard, biting on his bottom lip.)

“Are you alright?” Erik is saying to the woman, and Charles realises with a sharp shock that he has left her completely unmoving whilst distracted by his own release.

Charles makes her stand up, insist she is fine, and Erik leaves.

Breathing hard and wiping away his own come, Charles is disgusted with himself, sated and manipulative. He knows that he cannot act so rashly again. He knows he will never be able to hate Erik Lehnsherr, whatever happens.

Charles holds the woman dead still until Erik is ten streets away, and then he rushes to her, puts his hand to his temple and wipes her mind clean. With Moira, he had been a sentimentalist. Here he leaves no trace, no trace at all.

*

“I’ll take you any way I can have you,” Charles had told Erik once, back in 1962, desperate and sad and pleading, and Erik hadn’t taken him particularly seriously at the time.


End file.
